Chained
by How I Operate
Summary: Bob is a serial killing maniac, and Rabbit is his unwilling captive. Forced every day of his life to serve the man that killed his mother, Rabbit doesn't see how escape can ever be possible.
1. Chapter 1

Rabbit lifts his head as Bob walks into the room. Bob, a grimy, filthy spectacle, scratches his groin through thin, navy boxers, his only article of clothing. He doesn't look at Rabbit. Dragging his bare feet across the floor, he goes to the fridge and jerks it open, bathing both him and Rabbit in brilliantly fake white light. A chill passes over Bob as the fridge breathes out its cold, icy breath onto his naked skin. Rabbit curls his knee closer to his chest, unintentionally rattling the chain that has him forever bound to the walls.

Bob selects a beer and mindlessly holds it out to Rabbit, who immediately takes it and unscrews the lid, and hands it back. With shuffling feet, Bob goes to the den and plops down on the greasy, yellow chair.

Rabbit claws and picks at the frayed edges of his blanket, but it offers him little comfort. He presses his left temple into the side of the wall, eyes downcast. But with his ears he can see all that Bob is doing, for he knows his routine well. Sit on the chair, sip a beer, turn on the TV, change the channel. Call for Rabbit.

Suddenly Bob begins patting the side of his leg, as if dusting his pants or summoning a dog. But Rabbit knows this is his call. He rises from the cot in the kitchen and sits in the floor between Bob's knees.

"Did you work on the scrapbook today?" Bob asks.

Rabbit swallows, staring down at their feet. Bob's are hairy, while Rabbit's are quite bare. Bob's are also so much bigger than Rabbit's. He feels small, and hugs onto his knees to see how small he can really be.

"Rabbit?"

"No," Rabbit answers instantly. "I didn't. I... I didn't know you wanted me to."

The chair groans as Bob leans forward, his scruffy chin a mere inch from Rabbit's ear. "Do I have to spell everything out for you?" He asks.

Rabbit tenses up, feeling Bob's hot words against his cheek.

"Go, now," Bob says, sitting back in the chair. "Work on it until, uh... Until you've caught up with today's."

Rabbit gets up wordlessly and goes back to the kitchen, holding his chain like a wounded tail. He gathers up all the newspapers and blue plastic scissors and the book and sits at the kitchen table, where he begins to search, find, and cut out sections that speak about missing girls. He works late into the night, fighting back his exhaustion, until he notices that Bob is asleep.

He pauses, holding his breath. The TV casts odd lights and shadows onto Bob's face. The low humming of TV voices drone as a constant background noise. Rabbit glances at the scrapbook, noting his place, and stands.

He lifts the chain from the floor, preventing it from making noise, and carefully walks into the den.

Bob snores softly, his mouth hanging open, drool clinging to his unkempt facial hair. His massive belly rises and falls as he sucks in every breath. An obvious errection bulges from within the folds of his underwear.

Rabbit creeps forward, his nerves twitching, the chain growing wet in his hands from sweating palms. He looks at the TV and swiftly turns it off.

Bob grunts and rolls his head to the side, closing his mouth and smacking his lips.

Rabbit sees the beer bottle lying beside the chair, its contents settling stickily on the cold wooden floor. Kneeling down, he stands the bottle up, and from this position, he lifts his head and stares up at Bob.

His appearance is at once terrifying and grotesque. Yet Rabbit cannot deny his feelings of fondness for the very man who sexed and killed his mother. Bob has, after all, gifted him with knowledge when he could have simply killed him as well.

Rabbit lays down at his feet, careful not to disturb the chain. He stares at the black TV, faintly making out their reflections. It is cold in the floor, but Rabbit is used to the cold. Bob grunts again, and the sudden noise makes Rabbit flinch. But silence resumes its place, and Rabbit closes his eyes.

Time drips from the faucet of life, slowly, unnoticed. The house shifts and settles with low creeks and moans. Rabbit had left the light on in the kitchen, and its bulb is beginning to falter. Odd flashes and flicks of yellow light sputter across the room as its willpower fades away. Hours crawl by like spiders across the ceiling. Though it is well into the night, dawn is still quite a long way off.

Then, due to a nightmare, Bob awakes. He opens his eyes to the dim room, squinting despite it. His dream is instantly forgotten, though the thin feeling of danger still looms nearby. His back is stiff. He extends his legs to stretch, but his feet kick into something soft and warm.

Rabbit jolts awake with an alarmingly loud rattling of chains. He sits up and looks at Bob with wide eyes.

"What the fuck?" Bob barks, then kicks again, harder, purposefully.

Rabbit flinches but doesn't run away.

"What are you doing down there, Rabbit, huh?" Bob demands heatedly.

Rabbit avoids his eyes.

"You little shit, what do you think you're doing?" Bob snaps, seizing onto Rabbit's chain and jerking him towards him until he could reach his hair.

His fat fingers dig into Rabbit's scalp as he forces Rabbit to look him in the eye. Rabbit says nothing. Bob's gaze drifts over him to the kitchen, where he sees all the scrapbook mess still lying on the table.

"D'you finish the scrapbook like I asked? No, I bet you didn't. You never do anything right, you fucker." He shoves Rabbit away, releasing his hair. "Go on, now, finish your work! You won't be gettin' any breakfast in the morning, I can promise you that!"

Rabbit scrambles to his feet and into the kitchen, where he sits at the table. He stares at the papers and glue, unable to make sense of any of it. But then he remembers where he'd left off, and he begins working again.

Bob grumbles curses under his breath, watching Rabbit until his eyes grow heavy, and he at last slips back into sleep.

...

The next morning, Bob eats the cereal and milk that Rabbit sets out for him. But instead of leaving his bowl on the table for Rabbit to finish, Bob takes it to the sink and rinses it down the drain. Rabbit does not protest.

Still chewing his food, Bob pauses at the garage door and faces Rabbit. He points at the pantry. "If you so much as touch a single Cheerio in that box, I'll know about it. You're not to eat anything until I come home and say so. Got it?"

Rabbit nods.

Bob sniffs and nods back. "Good," he mutters, then leaves the house.

Rabbit waits, still and silent, until he hears the taxi rumble out of the garage and the garage shut behind it. Then he goes to his cot and lays down on top of the blanket, tucked up like a child on his side, closing his eyes.

The sharp, persistant buzzer wakes him up. He leaps from the cot and hurries to the door, unlocking the locks as fast as his trembling hands will allow. He backs up into the kitchen just in time, for Bob jerks open the door.

In comes a woman with red hair, curly, long. She's wearing a black blouse and white pants. Her shoes are missing and her feet are bloody. Tears run down her face in dirty mascara lines. She looks at Rabbit. Her eyes are greener than any grass Rabbit had ever seen.

"No, no, please, let me go, please, stop, _please!"_ The woman begs impractically. Impractical, because there is no escape.

Rabbit looks away as Bob wrenches her arm behind her back, forcing her to scream. She wails and cries and pleads for mercy, but Bob is not a merciful fellow. He leads the woman away down the hall to his bedroom, where he shuts the door with a thud.

Rabbit sits down between his cot and the stove, pushing himself into the corner as tight as he can go. He does not wish to hear the screams, but that does not mean he can't.


	2. Chapter 2

Later, once Bob has finished with her, he summons Rabbit to clean up the mess.

Obediantly, Rabbit takes the woman by the legs and drags her out of the bedroom. Then, grabbing a bucket of hot, soapy water and a rag, he carefully begins to bathe the blood and grit from the dead woman's body.

While Rabbit's busy, Bob wants to see what really went on last night while he was sleeping. He takes the tape out of the stuffed bear and puts it into the VHS player, rewinding it until he reaches the right moment.

He watches himself get a beer and go sit in the chair. He watches Rabbit work on the scrapbook. Nothing happens for a long while, so Bob fast-forwards it until he sees Rabbit get up from the table. Quietly, Rabbit gathers up his chains and sneaks over to Bob.

His heart stammers in his chest. He leans up in the chair, eyes glued to the screen as he wonders what the hell that boy is thinking. Bob's eyes darken and his mouth hangs slack. A sudden fear strikes him as he wonders if Rabbit had stabbed him in his sleep. He checks himself briefly, but sees he is unscathed apart from the cat-scratches Monique, the fresh red-head, had given him.

He brings his attention back to the screen, waiting for some excitement. But none ever comes.

Rabbit simply lays down on the floor at Bob's feet and falls asleep.

Bob stares for a long time, but Rabbit doesn't stir. He fast-forwards the tape again, but all remains peaceful until Bob himself awakens and throws a fit, sending Rabbit away.

Bob turns off the TV, feeling a bit ill. He sighs and looks through the walls to where Rabbit probably is. He considers going to help him clean up, but decides against it. It's Rabbit's job to keep the house clean, he reminds himself.

He gets up and goes into the kitchen. He opens the pantry and stares at all the food and cardboard boxes and plastic packages. Nothing appears disturbed. He scowls as he feels a droop of sickliness in his stomach. Snatching a box of crackers from the shelf, he sticks his hand inside, pulling out a fistful of broken crackers and salt crumbs. He stands there and greedily eats the whole box, then drops it to the floor, unsatisfied.

Vaguely, he hopes the cracker box will attract rats so he can blame their infestation on Rabbit's lack of cleanliness.

He takes a beer from the fridge and goes into the bedroom.

Rabbit is washing the blood from a pillowcase. He looks up at Bob, but quickly looks back down and continues his chore.

Bob leans in the doorframe, supping on his beer quietly, watching.

Soon Rabbit finishes with the pillowcase and hangs it up to dry, then begins scrubbing at odd spatters of blood that dot the floor.

"You know why blood gets hard to scrub off?" Bob asks after a moment.

"Coagulation," Rabbit answers.

"Which is?"

Rabbit pauses. "The act of blood thickening to form clots and prevent further bleeding."

Bob nods absently, his heart not really into the game. "Good," he says shortly. He looks around the room. "Did you take care of the woman? Bury her already?"

"Yes." Rabbit's volume drops dramatically into a near-whisper. He keeps his eyes down. "Her license is in the box, and her money is in the jar."

"Okay, Rabbit," Bob grumbles.

But Rabbit goes on unnecessarily, his voice rising, words coming out faster. "She had fifteen dollars, two fives and five ones, and three pennies. Monique Michelle Seaford, age 26, weight 135. Lived on 902 River-"

"Enough, Rabbit!" Bob snaps, throwing his beer to the ground. It shatters and bits of glass and beer spray all over the room. "Jesus, don't you know when to shut up?"

Rabbit goes silent. He scrubs the soiled pink rag in a circle across a rather large blood stain as if nothing happened.

Bob's eyes are laced with anger. He wipes his mouth hastily with a handkerchief from his pocket, then turns and stomps off down the hall.

Once Bob is out of sight, Rabbit moves around the room and gathers up all the shards of glass, taking care to find every piece so that later Bob does not accidentally step on one and get cut.

His stomach aches with hunger, but Rabbit does his best to ignore it. He does not expect any lunch after what just happened. It saddens him, but he knows it is his own fault, so he cannot blame anyone except himself.

...

Bob watches TV dully. The News is on, showing footage of a missing woman's house, the last place she was seen eight days ago. Mentally, Bob lists off her name and address, and recalls whether or not she was a nice ride. She had been. He smiles.

A chain rattles in the distance, and Bob lifts his hand from his crotch and straightens up in the chair, knowing Rabbit is coming. He appears moments later, giving Bob a slight glance before making his way to his cot.

Bob looks over at him, examining him from behind.

"You're disgusting, Rabbit," he comments lightly.

Rabbit stops walking, looking down at himself. Rusty red hands, stained bloody knees. Dirt, sand, and dust coating his clothes in thin, gray patches. He touches his hair and feels a dead leaf clinging amongst the tangles. Rabbit pulls the leaf out and holds it delicately in his hand, as if he does not know what to do with it. He turns his head slowly and gazes at Bob.

Bob stares at him for a second or two, then plants his hands on the arms of the chair.

"Come on," he says, pushing himself to his feet. "Let's clean you up."

...

In the bathroom, Bob turns Rabbit to him and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Rabbit stands still, watching Bob's face, then his hands as he moves down. Dark purple and sickly yellow bruises swirl across his chest and shoulders, revealed in the dim orange light as Bob removes his shirt.

Guilt curls in Bob's stomach like sour milk.

He gave Rabbit that beating last week for not opening the door until twelve seconds had passed. Rabbit hadn't shed a tear while he was taking it; only immediately afterwards, after Bob had let him go. Rabbit slumped to the floor and hugged himself and wept for almost an hour, until at last Bob could stand it no more and yelled at him not to make another sound. And Rabbit hadn't, so that was the end of it.

But Rabbit is a porcelain bird.

Bob touches a particularly ugly bruise, feeling Rabbit's stomach tighten.

"You, uhh..." Bob licks his lips. "You remember why I gave you that?" He points uselessly.

Rabbit nods once.

"What?"

"Yes," Rabbit says softly.

Bob nods. "Mistakes like that aren't tolerated, you know? You gotta... Gotta stay on top of it."

"I was in the bathroom," Rabbit says in a low voice.

"What?" Bob demands.

Rabbit clenches his jaw.

"Are you back-talking?" Bob grabs him by the hair, twisting it in his fist.

Rabbit's breath hisses between his teeth as his heart races. His hands begin to shake at his sides, fighting the urge to fight. He stares Bob in the eye.

"It won't happen again," he manages to say.

Bob lets him go, his shoulders slumping.

"Okay, fine," Bob says wearily. He stares at the scum in-between the tiles on the floor. "Get, get your pants off."

Rabbit quickly slips out of his over-sized pajama pants, kicking them behind him to join his shirt. Shy, he doesn't want to take off his underwear, but he knows Bob will be cross with him if he refuses to. Rabbit pulls down his boxers and drops them onto his pants. He keeps his eyes down.

Bob sticks his hand in the bathtub, checking the water temperature. It's hot, but not scalding. He shakes the water from his hand and turns off the faucet.

"Get in," he orders.

Rabbit steps into the water and slowly sits down, his knees tucked to his chest. He breathes through his mouth, tasting the steam on his tongue. It reminds him of boiling pasta, and his stomach growls in the sudden longing for spaghetti.

"Hungry, Rabbit?" Bob asks spitefully, kneeling down beside the tub. He chuckles to himself as he gets the bar of soap, dipping it in the water by Rabbit's arm.

Rabbit stares at the shimmering water, watching the heat rise from its surface. It feels good to be inside the water, but his shoulders and knees are coldly exposed. He surpresses a shiver.

Bob rubs the soap in his hands until it lathers up, then pauses.

"Dunk your head in," he tells Rabbit.

Rabbit closes his eyes and leans forward, pushing his face beneath the water until his forehead bumps into the bottom of the tub. He sits back up, blowing water from his nostrils and sniffling.

Bob immediately seizes onto Rabbit's hair, then releases it, massaging the soap deep within. His fingers tangle and tear through knots and clumps of dirt. White soap bubbles turn brown and run down the back of Rabbit's neck and cheeks. Soon Bob is convinced that Rabbit's hair is clean, so he grabs his head and shoves him back under the water.

Rabbit barely had time to hold his breath, but he doesn't struggle. Bob scrubs the soap out of his hair while holding him under, letting him go only when he is throroughly rinsed.

Sitting back up, Rabbit coughs once but does not complain, blinking the soap from his burning eyes.

As Bob stares, his eyes unfocus. He considers what he would have done if his father had treated him the way he treats Rabbit. I would have killed him, he thinks. No, you would've done_ nothing. _Bob grinds his teeth together, memories flashing in his head. He shakes his head to clear it, and the bar of soap still in his hand breaks in half. Bob blinks, unclenching his fist. The other half of the soap splats to the floor.

"You, uh... You can finish up," Bob says awkwardly, feeling so because he didn't know how long Rabbit had been staring at him. He gets up and quickly leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Bob cooks dinner. What he calls cooking, anyway. Two boxes of macaroni and cheese and stale bread and butter.

Rabbit follows the scent of food and comes into the kitchen, his chain dragging after him. He's dressed in a long-sleeved white t-shirt and worn-thin khaki pants. His hair is still damp from the bath. He goes to the cot and sits down.

Bob looks at him over his shoulder.

"Want some, uh, macaroni stuff?" He asks, lifting a wooden spoon from the pot of macaroni and cheese. Tiny, squiggly, yellow noodles cling to the edge. Steam curls into the air above it.

Rabbit stares at Bob, uncertain if this is a tease or not.

"Ah, sure you do." Bob scrapes some macaroni into a bowl and brings it to the table, putting it on Rabbit's side. He drops a fork into the bowl and turns back to the stove.

Rabbit slides off the cot and onto his knees before the table, his nose hovering over his bowl. He smells the warm cheesiness and it makes his mouth water. He lifts his head and looks at Bob.

"Thank you," he says gratefully.

Bob doesn't respond. He fixes his own bowl and butters them both a slice of bread, then sits down across from Rabbit. Bob stirs his food with a fork and almost puts it in his mouth, then hesitates. He stands up suddenly and Rabbit ducks his nose under the table, watching Bob with his eyes.

"Want a beer?" Bob asks, turning and opening the fridge.

"No, thank you," Rabbit answers.

Bob gets a glass from the cabinet and fills it at the sink, handing it to Rabbit.

Rabbit takes it, feeling uneasy with Bob's sudden kindness.

Bob sits back down, taking a long swig from his beer. "Eat," Bob says as he puts down the beer. "Don't let it get cold."

Rabbit straightens back up and takes hold of the fork protruding from his macaroni. He waits until Bob has taken the first bite, before digging in.

...

After dinner, Bob assumes the position in front of the television while Rabbit washes the dishes.

There isn't much to do, for they ate every single noodle. But Rabbit takes his time, lost in thought. Though he does not want to question why Bob is suddenly being kinder to him, he cannot help but do it anyway. Perhaps his own growing affections for the man is only making him _seem_ more kind. Rabbit is unsure. He thought he had put Bob's puzzle together a long time ago, but now it seems as if he had missed a few pieces.

"Rabbit," Bob calls, smacking the side of his leg. "Rabbit."

"I'm almost finished," Rabbit replies, snapping out of it. He quickly dries the inside of the pot.

"I don't care about that, come here!"

Rabbit turns off the sink and goes into the den, pausing three feet away from Bob.

"Right here." Bob pats the floor between his feet. "Watch TV with me."

Rabbit sits down.

Something is on TV that Rabbit recognizes, but cannot remember it exactly. Though Rabbit doesn't ask, Bob suddenly feels the need to explain. He clears his throat.

"This is 'The Price Is Right,'" Bob tells him. "People uh, guess how much an object is worth, say this chair. And the whoever gets it right, gets some money."

"Oh," Rabbit says quietly. He looks down at the floor as a faint memory reaches out to him. He remembers his mother loving this show.

"Say, how much do you think that lamp is worth?" Bob nudges Rabbit with his elbow, wanting to play.

"May I go to my bed?" Rabbit asks.

Bob hesitates, thrown off. "I, uh, I guess. If you want."

Rabbit gets up and goes into the kitchen, where he lays on his cot facing the wall.

Bob feels dejected. He stares at the TV, but its pleasure has lost its effect.

...

Bob leaves early the next morning, before the sun has fully climbed the sky.

The garage shutting is what wakes him up. Rabbit did not even get a chance to make Bob breakfast.

Rabbit spends the day scrubbing things.

He washes the front of the refrigerator. He cleans the burnt food bits from the bottom of the oven. He washes the kitchen table and flips it over to clean its underside. He throws away an empty box of crackers left in the pantry floor.

Then he goes into the den and very carefully washes Bob's chair. He runs his finger over the armrest, where Bob has spent countless hours digging his fingernails into the cushion. He is reminded of his own self, the way he tends to pick and claw at his bed and sheets. He wonders why they both do that, when there is no relation between them. Not that he knows of.

Into Bob's bedroom he wanders. The faded sunflower wallpaper and barren furniture suggest a hotel room, not a sanctuary for murder. He touches the mattress with his thumb, his nail snagging slightly on the fibrous fabric. Though the bed appears clean, he washes it anyway.

Once he's finished in the bedroom, he goes into the bathroom. Soap scum and hair line the bathtub walls. Rabbit goes to work, picking out the tiniest of hairs and scrubbing away the filth until it shines like new. Then, on his hands and knees, he scrubs the grout lines in the tile, but it fails to come clean.

Yawning, Rabbit walks around the house, looking for something else to clean. But everything seems fine. He wishes he would have asked Bob if he could study the books before he left. He thinks about going to get them himself, but quickly tosses the idea aside. He does not want to get in trouble.

So Rabbit sits down on his cot and twists and untwists the blanket in his hands idly. He swings his legs and watches the chain slide forwards and back across the floor, making a dull scraping sound.

He wonders what time it is, but he knows time is not really important. Bob has not yet taught him how to read the wooden clock in the kitchen.

He lays down and closes his eyes and remains that way for hours, but never falls asleep.

...

He hears the taxi pull up to the garage, then the garage slowly opens.

Rabbit sits up, waiting. His heart begins to race, his throat feeling clogged as he takes shallow breaths through his nostrils. He wonders who it will be this time.

The garage door shuts, and the buzzer rings out.

Automatically, Rabbit glides to the door and unlocks the three bolts, then goes back to the cot.

The door bangs open and Bob comes in, dragging a woman by her silken black hair.

She is unconcious. Rabbit recognizes it instantly. A small cut on her forehead oozes with ripe blood.

"She, uh..." Bob looks at the girl, releases her hair, and watches her crumple to the floor. He looks back at Rabbit. "She hurts too easily. Like uh, like an eggshell. Some of them you have to be careful with, or they'll be done before you even get a chance to fuck with them. Understand?"

Rabbit nods.

Bob wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, for his palm is coated with blood.

"Good." He leans over and takes the girl by the wrist and drags her away to the bedroom.

Soon he comes back without her and washes his hands at the kitchen sink, then he goes out in the garage. Moments later he returns with a newspaper, a purse, and a black leather jacket.

Rabbit remains sitting, watching Bob as silently as a picture on the wall.

Bob thumps the paper onto the table, then taps it with his finger.

"Have a look in there and check for missing persons." He glances up at Rabbit, but he makes no response. Still, Bob is satisfied. He looks off towards the bedroom. "I'm gonna go sit with her until she wakes up. Then uh... Yeah. Read through that for the scrapbook. Okay?"

Rabbit nods.

Bob drops the woman's purse on the table.

"You can look through that, too," he tells Rabbit.

Then, with the leather jacket still slung over his arm, he walks down the hall and disappears into the bedroom, shutting the door.

Rabbit counts to five, then gets up from the cot and stands in front of the table. He touches the woman's black leather purse, which is still warm from being under Bob's arm. He takes it into his hands and sits back down, holding it in his lap. He unzips it carefully, tilting it to the light so he can see inside. He sticks his hand in and pulls out a wallet, a coin purse, two tampons, a button, a stick of gum, an empty tube of lipgloss, and a cell phone.

He lays these things in a line beside him, tossing the purse back on the table. A million thoughts buzz through his head as he stares at the phone. He flips it open and stares at the illuminated numbers. Of course, he knows 911. But he thinks, if he tries hard enough, that he can remember his old house number.

The phone vibrates in his hand, and the screen displays "1 New Message." Suddenly afraid, Rabbit shuts the phone and drops it to the floor. He takes a slow breath and then begins searching through the wallet.

Her drivers license tells him who she is. Delilah Rose Richards, age 29, etc etc. She has a one dollar bill, a two dollar bill, three quarters, and a penny. He places the money and license on the table and the wallet beside it, and sits down.

The coin purse has only a receipt inside, a receipt for cigarettes and potato chips. He folds the receipt along its previous creases and puts it back inside the coin purse, and sets it on the table as well.

He sniffs the stick of gum and the smell tingles in his nose. Cinnamon, he tells himself. He puts it on the table.

The rest of the things mean nothing to him. He takes the tampons, button, and lipgloss and throws them away in the trash can in the pantry. He pauses, scanning what's left on the table. He snatches up the empty wallet, and the coin purse and throws them all away. He puts the gum in his pocket.

His eyes catch a glint from beneath his cot. The phone sits like a snake in the grass, as if it is invisable. Rabbit picks it up, but its venom does not affect him. He lays it on top of the purse.

Taking the newspaper, Rabbit sits on his cot and begins to read.

...

Gradually, the sound of screams fills the house. The woman, Delilah, is awake.

"I'm sorry you were a whore," Rabbit thinks aloud, absently turning pages. "But you asked for this the moment you were born." He chews the very edge of his thumbnail, pausing, reading a segment about puppies needing good homes.


	4. Chapter 4

A few minutes later, Bob comes into the room. Rabbit looks up, placing the newspaper beside him.

"Go on," Bob says gruffily, motioning for Rabbit to move.

Rabbit gets up and heads to the bedroom to clean up the mess.

Bob sulks over to the table and skims through the stuff. A cold feeling rips into his stomach upon seeing the phone. I thought I checked for that, he thinks wildly. His eyes narrow with suspicion. He grabs the phone and opens it. He reads the waiting message.

It's from someone named Kelly. "Hey grl want 2 get drinks l8r? I'll b James house let me kno k ttyl."

Bob makes a face and closes the message, then checks to see if any calls have been made recently. None. He checks again, but Rabbit hadn't touched a thing. Relief washes over him and his anger melts away.

He turns off the phone and removes the SIM card, dropping it to the floor and stomping it to bits.

He counts the money on the table and studies the woman's ID. He grins. She lied about her weight big-time, though he did not think she needed to. Women are such sluts. He shakes his head disapprovingly, though he knows that does not change the truth.

He finds the newspaper on Rabbit's bed and picks it up, taking it to the den. He sits down in his chair and plans to read it while waiting for Rabbit to finish his job.

Staring at the newspaper, Bob cannot help but feel giddy, knowing that he can finally trust Rabbit to do the right thing. The words blur together and make no sense like an abstract painting. He cannot focus on their meaning, nor does he care to. Happier things are on his mind than seeking out missing people.

"Rabbit!" He calls. He leans forward in the chair, smiling. He turns his head toward the hall. "Rabbit!" He strains his ears, but doesn't hear the chain rattling.

He stands up, dropping the paper in his place, and follows the chain to the bedroom.

He sees Rabbit on the floor, cradling the dead woman's head in his lap, gently mopping away the blood from her lips.

"Rabbit?" Bob doesn't like what he's seeing, but he tries to keep his tone light.

Startled, Rabbit jumps to his feet. He stares at Bob with wide, anxious eyes.

"Didn't you, uh, hear me calling?" Bob queries, placing his hands on his hips.

Rabbit swallows but says nothing.

"Come on," Bob gestures. "I want to show you something. Come, Rabbit."

He waits until Rabbit takes a step towards him before turning and walking back down the hall.

"When a man owns a dog," Bob says as he walks to the kitchen. "He keeps him chained up until he trains him, until he knows he's a good dog and not a bad one. But you're not a dog, Rabbit, you're, you're like a son to me and I know you're a good boy." He stops, standing by the kitchen table, facing Rabbit.

Rabbit stands a few feet away, not knowing what to say.

"Come here," Bob commands, patting his leg.

Rabbit walks over.

Bob gets down on his knees.

Rabbit shifts his weight uncomfortably, but holds himself still as Bob grabs onto his ankle for support.

"I know you found that girl's phone and, and I know you didn't try anything with it," Bob explains. "And that just proves to me that I can trust you. So this is my way of, uh, saying thank you, Rabbit."

Bob clears his throat and bends over even further, lifting Rabbit's pants leg. His fingers paw at the latch, squeezing the sides of the cold iron cuff and unlocking it. The cuff and chains fall to the floor with a weighted thud.

Bob stands up and wipes his mouth with his handkerchief.

Rabbit's eyes whell up with tears. He rubs his ankle tenderly, staring down at the coiled chain as if it were a dead rodent.

"Thank you." Rabbit can barely say the words.

"No, thank _you, _Rabbit. It means a lot to me that I can trust you. It really makes me proud. Whatever you want, you can have. You don't have to ask any more. If you want something we don't have, tell me, and I'll get it. Okay?"

"I... I can study the books whenever I want?"

"Hell, Rabbit, you know where they are. Take them, they're yours. You _don't have to ask, _don't you get it?"

Rabbit's lips tremble with emotion. He hangs his head to hide his tears, nodding.

Bob licks his lips then wipes them with his hand. He scratches his head, feeling like there is something else he needs to say or do. Then he figures it out.

Blinking back tears of his own, Bob spreads out his arms. "Come on, Rabbit. Come, come on."

Rabbit looks up and hesitates, seeing Bob distraught. His arms remain outstretched, but Rabbit doesn't move.

"Come on, now, we're family. Families can hug, can't they? Damn it, Rabbit." Bob stomps up to Rabbit and seizes him in a tight, warm embrace.

Bob squeezes Rabbit against him, unable to recall the last time he had ever been hugged. Slowly Rabbit lifts his dead arms and wraps them around Bob's back.

"That's it Rabbit, come on," Bob cooes.

Rabbit presses his cheek into Bob's chest, and in response Bob runs his fingers through his hair.

"Yes, Rabbit." Bob sighs happily. "You're a good kid."

...

Nearly two hours later, Rabbit finally finishes his work on the girl, Delilah, burying her in the dirt beneath the house like all the others. He smoothes the top of her make-shift grave with his palm, then carefully places the wrinkled stick of cinnamon gum on it.

"Delilah," he says softly.

He glances behind him as a red Christmas light begins to flicker. He watches it until it quits, then rises from his knees, dusting them off as he stands.

It has been odd, moving about without his chain. His leg feels strangely light.

Rabbit twists the bulb that had been faltering, and goes back inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Some time in the afternoon of the next day, Bob and Rabbit sit together at the kitchen table. Bob sits on the thin chair while Rabbit sits on a stool. Bob eats a turkey sandwich and Rabbit, simply out of habit, doesn't ask for food. And Bob, out of habit as well, doesn't offer any.

"I think it's time you had a woman under your belt," Bob says, chewing the brown crust of his sandwich.

"I don't want one," Bob replies evenly. He stares down at his hands, which are intertwined on the table. A fly settles on the table's edge, and Rabbit wiggles his thumb and frightens it away.

"What?" Bob feigns confusion. "Don't be silly, 'course you do." He lifts his beer and takes a long drink, then places it back on the table, chewing a second before swallowing. "No teenager _alive _would say no to an opportunity like this." He grins and winks at Rabbit, as if together they hold a wickedly juicy secret.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Rabbit tells him coldly.

"Now Rabbit, we've been through this," Bob begins, his tone suddenly stern. "The women we hunt, they're not good people. They're not smart, not educated like us. If given the chance, they will try to kill you. But again," Bob shrugs. "Like I said, they're not smart. They don't realize we're too strong for them to beat. So we gotta take them down before they try to pull anything. Understand, now, Rabbit?"

"Why don't you just leave them alone?" Rabbit asks, his forehead wrinkling. "Don't bring them back?"

Bob's face reddens, but he tries to contain his frustration. "This is what I _do_, Rabbit, you know that. Those broads need to be taken off the streets anyways so they don't go after some poor piece of shit and milk him for all he's got. We're helping the _world_, Rabbit, not just ourselves."

Rabbit nods.

"Okay." Bob nods back. He takes a bite of his sandwich and the rest of it drops to the plate. He stands up, the chair scraping against the wood floor as it's shoved back. "I have a new book for you," Bob says loudly as if he's across the room, when really he has just stepped into the pantry.

Rabbit sits up on the stool eagerly, yet void of any facial expression.

Bob reaches up to the top shelf and pulls down a thin black book. He hands it to Rabbit and sits back down.

Rabbit runs his finger over the title, 'Free to Decide.'

"It's a school year book," Bob explains as Rabbit tilts the golden stamped lettering to the light, watching it sparkle.

Rabbit looks up, a glob of unease forming in his gut.

"Open it, come on," Bob urges, leaning forward. "Have a look."

Rabbit obeys, and instantly beholds black-and-white wallet-sized portraits of students. Names are pasted beneath each photograph. There are both male and female. The unease grows heavy as he turns the pages, seeing more and more people, all around his age.

"I don't understand," Rabbit says, though he thinks that perhaps he understands all too well.

"See something you like?" Bob asks cheekily, grinning with a piece of lettuce stuck between his teeth.

Rabbit knew it. He shuts the book and pushes it to Bob across the table.

"No, thank you."

"You, uh... You didn't even make it to the cheerleading section," Bob lets him know.

Rabbit avoids his eyes, staring down into his lap.

"I don't care." His words come out in sharp blocks. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

Bob sighs, shaking his head. "How many times do I have to-"

"I don't care if they're whores or sluts. I don't care what they've done to other men. I still don't want to hurt them."

"Rabbit..." Bob's tone turns as black as his eyes. "You're starting to make me angry."

"I don't care," Rabbit mutters.

"That's it, you little piss." Bob swipes his massive arm and punches Rabbit in the face.

Rabbit topples off of the stool and crashes to the floor. An instant later, the stool falls over to join him. Rabbit closes his eyes. His right cheek is burning, pulsing. But his left cheek is pressed against the cool wooden floor, and together it feels rather nice.

"Get up, Rabbit, come on," Bob orders, standing up from his chair. He towers over the table and peers down at Rabbit, anger lighting up inside of him like a match in a bonfire.

Rabbit ignores him. Slowly he extends his soft, pink tongue and licks at his hurt cheek. He tastes blood. The tongue retreats into the mouth. He swallows.

"Rabbit!"

No response.

"_Rabbit!_" He slams his fist onto the table, rattling the plate with his half-eaten sandwich still resting on it. "God _damn_ you!" Bob swears and stomps out of the room. The bedroom door closes with a earth-rumbling bang.

Once the vibrations have faded from the floor, Rabbit opens his eyes. He gets up and scarfs down the rest of Bob's lunch, then washes the plate at the sink.

He picks up the stool and stacks it in the corner on top of the other one, and steps back to the table. He stares at the yearbook, hovers his hand above it, but does not touch it.

He walks over to his cot and sits down, feeling drained. His feet are cold, being bare, so he tucks them up beneath his bottom and wraps his blanket around his shoulders. Exhaling softly, he leans his head back into the wall and closes his eyes once more.

But then the bedroom door flies open, and Bob nearly runs back down the hall. Bob shakes his head back and forth until he spots Rabbit sitting on his cot.

"I can't believe you, Rabbit!" He yells, spit flinging from his growling mouth. "I let you off the leash, grant you freedom, and you treat me this way? How dare you!" He paces the floor, keeping his eye on Rabbit the whole time. "What makes you think you've got_ any _right to judge my line of work? Huh? _Huh?_ You're nothing. You're a sack of shit. I can see now why your dad gave you away. You're a worthless no-good kid, and you got _no right _to turn against my teaching."

Bob sniffs, and notices the chain hidden away beneath Rabbit's cot. He puffs out his chest and walks over, giving Rabbit a dirty look before snatching hold of his ankle.

Rabbit lets out a low whimper but quickly restrains himself from making any other sounds as Bob pulls the chain out from under his cot.

"You leave me no choice, Rabbit." Bob says, shaking his head, his tone strangely melancholic. "Bad dogs get locked up. Don't look at me like that. You done this to youself."

He clamps the cuff back around Rabbit's ankle and straightens up.

Rabbit continues to glare at him, so Bob smacks him with an open palm, right where he had punched him before. He hesitates only briefly before striking his other cheek as well.

Rabbit looks down.

"Good," Bob breathes out, his chest heaving. "Now shut up."

With that, Bob turns and walks into the den where he switches on the TV, sits down, and pretends he never stole a child.

...

Evening falls away and morning rises in its place.

Bob takes a bath and gets dressed for work while Rabbit makes him a breakfast of fried eggs and bacon. Both of which Bob rarely brings home, so they are considered a luxury.

Bacon-smell floods the house with its greasy familiarity, and though Rabbit's mouth waters as he cooks, he does not dare sneak a bite.

He hears the bathroom door open and quickly slides the food onto a plate and sets it on the table, along with a glass of water.

Bob ambles into the room groggily, as though he had not slept well, and slumps down on the chair. He takes a breath, sucking in all the hot breakfast steam, and sighs it back out.

Rabbit turns off the stove and retreats to his cot, where he sits, looking away as Bob eats.

"I don't, uh..." Bob struggles to speak. "I don't get any toast?"

Rabbit glances at him, gulping down a mouthful of air. "We don't have any more bread," he says softly.

"Did you make a list of things we need?"

Rabbit shakes his head.

Bob claps his hands together to get Rabbit's attention. "Well, get up and do it! Come on, now!"

Rabbit stands and finds a piece of paper and a pencil, then, standing at the counter, writes 'bread.' He pauses, thinks about it, and adds 'milk' and 'cheese' and 'beer.'

He places the piece of paper on the kitchen table, pushing it with two fingers until it is close enough for Bob to reach. He curls back up on the cot with his cold chain.

Bob gorges on his breakfast, stabbing his bacon into the fried egg until the yolk runs out like blood. He dips it in, takes a bite, and repeats until all the bacon is gone. Then he eats the egg-whites, leaving the yolk in a runny orange circle. He stands abruptly and chugs down his water.

"That was good," he compliments lightly, wiping his chin.

Rabbit doesn't acknowledge him.

"Work on the scapbook today, because I know for a fact that you didn't last night."

Rabbit remains downcast.

Bob leaves the house.


	6. Chapter 6

Days pass and Rabbit has all but forgotten the feeling of being off the chain. He tries to stay out of Bob's way, serving him dilegently as required, but then retreating to his bed. As though he was turned back into the nine year old boy, he slinks and ducks and hides his face in submissive fear and acceptance. He does not expect life to ever get any better.

Bob follows his own rut around the house, tromp tromp tromping from the kitchen to the recliner to the fridge, then back to the recliner and eventually to his bedroom.

Some days he brings home a woman, some days he doesn't.

Though he doesn't want to admit it, Bob feels like the pleasure in kidnapping and raping strangers is dwindling away. It's not quite guilt, but something deeper, more foriegn, because in no way has Bob begun to feel bad for hurting the women, no. That part still gives him that sick thrill in the pit of his stomach. He can't explain it, and he doesn't want to try.

...

One evening Bob sits reading the newspaper, half-way watching TV whenever he hears something that may prove interesting.

Rabbit lays on his cot, his eyes open but unfocused. He stares across the kitchen to the fridge and the sink and beyond. Everything is blurred and hazy, and he thinks how nice it would have been if he were born blind.

"Rabbit."

Or deaf, he adds after flinching from Bob's harsh spit of gravelly words. His eyes swivel to the recliner in the den and Rabbit slowly sits up, glaring at Bob, who isn't paying him any mind.

"Come, Rabbit," Bob calls, whacking the side of his leg with the newspaper.

Rabbit slips his feet to the floor and pads silently over to Bob. Silent, apart from the heavy rusting chain pulling unevenly after him.

"Here, take this. On page 4b there's a section on the rise of kidnappings over the years. Cut it out and paste it in the scrapbook."

Bob glances at Rabbit as he takes the newspaper, then looks back at the TV.

Rabbit stands there stubbornly, staring at him, unmoving, the newspaper clinched between white-knuckled fingers.

Bob's eyes remain glued to the TV, his lips parted slightly, saliva reflecting the screen's continuously changing light. He feels Rabbit watching him and turns his head sharply.

"Get on with you! Go!" He snaps, smacking at Rabbit's hand.

Rabbit takes a subtle step back, and Bob misses him. Bob gives Rabbit a look of utter disgust, and Rabbit, relatively satisfied, turns on his heel and drags his chained self back to the kitchen.

...

Another day crumbles away.

For breakfast Rabbit makes Bob biscuits and gravy. Home-made.

He had found an old cookbook a few weeks ago in the back of the pantry under soggy, stained cardboard boxes of expired canned goods. Most of the pages were ruined beyond understanding, but a few pages were good and the biscuits and gravy recipe was one of them. It hadn't taken him long to memorize how to make it. Naturally, after he had his fill of the cookbook, he would put it back exactly where he found it. Bob would never find out.

Bob eats breakfast, a bit surprised how delicious it is. For a moment, he wonders if perhaps Rabbit is trying to poison him. But none of my books talk about that, do they? His mind whirls and his heart races as the sweet biscuit melts on his tongue, so good it's scary. He eats half of it, deliberately mixing it all together, then pretends to be full. He pushes the plate across the table to Rabbit, who sits solemnly on his bed.

"Here," Bob says.

Rabbit hesitates, noting the strangeness of Bob's expression. He knows this must be some kind of test. Swallowing dryly, Rabbit sits on his knees in front of the table. The warm plate of food steams up into his nostrils, and his tongue goes wet with longing. Rabbit is sure Bob will rip the plate away before he can taste it, but then he looks up and Bob hands him his fork.

Rabbit takes it and stabs it into a soft lump of biscuit, smooshing it around in the gravy before pushing it into his mouth. The flavor is better than Rabbit had expected. Warm, fluffy, wet with sticky, brown gravy. He slurps the food off the fork to keep drool from running out between his lips. He eats ravenously, his hunger suddenly apparent. But before he can eat more than one biscuit, Bob pulls the plate back.

"Okay, okay," Bob grunts jealously. "I'm not done, yet." He jerks the fork from Rabbit's limp fingers and greedily cleans the plate.

Rabbit stays on the floor in front of the table. He watches the food lift off the plate and vanish into Bob's mouth like a dog. His stomach pinches, his appetite only just whetted. Bob literally wipes the plate clean with his thick, red tongue, leaving nothing to offer. But with a growing, boiling anger, Rabbit stiffens and does not say a word.

...

Later, Bob brings home a woman.

Her hair is a tangle of brown and blonde, her crismson lips drip with blood. Her bright blue eyes roll beneath half-closed lids.

Bob holds her by the nape of her neck, squeezing the soft skin, forcing her to submit.

Out of her mouth whimpers a sound like a kitten, and Rabbit is immediately engraged.

"Rabbit," Bob says as he shoves the woman in through the garage door. "Rabbit, get out of the way."

Rabbit stares. His lips tremble with fear, his knees begin to shake. His heart flutters and his lungs seem to reject the act of breathing.

"No," Rabbit says, his voice coming out much weaker than he desires.

"Rabbit," Bob begins, but then the woman tries to twist out from under his grasp, and his patience darts away. He swings out and punches Rabbit on the cheek.

Like an old rug, Rabbit is flung to the side, his shoulder crunching against the kitchen counter. He thumps to the floor and lays there quietly, his face pulsing and his eyes whelling with tears.

Bob pushes the woman forward, but she struggles to step over Rabbit and his chain. Bob just pushes her more until she manages, his fingers digging into her neck. He leads her away, into the bedroom. A few breathless moments of silent pass, then Rabbit starts to cry as he hears the woman scream.

...

Bob hasn't noticed, but Rabbit has been growing thin. Not only because he hasn't been getting enough to eat. Stress, worry, anger, depression, these things and others are dragging Rabbit down.

Rabbit has always worn baggy clothes. They were Bob's old ones, after all. But his clothes have started to hang looser and looser. Rabbit doesn't mind. It bothered him a little at first, but he's already grown accustomed to the way his ribs stick out, the soft bumps in his skin when he rubs his hands down his sides.

It has become painful for Rabbit to lay on his side, for it feels as though he's laying on bone alone. Forced to lay on his back, Rabbit gazes up at the ceiling at night, nightmares keeping him from sleep, and wonders when he will die.

...

There's a particularly difficult crust of food on the casserole dish.

Rabbit had been scrubbing it methodically with a rag, but when its filth refused to come off, he began scraping at it with his fingernails. Under the lukewarm stream of water, his nails grow soft and bend backwards easily against the lump of burnt-on grit. Chips of it grinds its way beneath his nails, penetrating the soft, unexposed skin. Prickles of sharp pain sparks in his fingers, and Rabbit winces but does not stop.

Bob, on the recliner, dozes in and out of sleep as the news on TV and the constant running faucet create low background noise.

If Rabbit stops washing the dishes, he fears that Bob will suddenly awaken and rush to his side, demanding why. Why stop before your task is completed? He might ask. Rabbit claws into the burnt food, biting back his shaky breath as his nails begin to bleed, tinting the dirty sink water with a light pink hue.

He would rather suffer in this manner than risk being punished.

...

Still a bit out of breath from the exertion, Bob wipes the blood from his hands and the tears from his eyes, sniffling slightly as he stares down unappealingly at the mess he just made.

A girl, couldn't have been a day older than Rabbit, lay at his feet. He knew that it was a girl because he had seen her before he ruined away her features. But if a stranger walked in and beheld the sight, they would not know what they were looking at.

Her dust-colored skin, once so taught and supple, now lay marred open and the flesh beneath hung open in sour red patches. Globs and chunks of blood and skin splatted around her in a delirious halo. Her eyes, which had been a deep, deep brown, are graying out in death as they stare into oblivion. The girl's hair used to be brown, but, streaked with blood and twisted into uncombable tangles, in the dim, wavering light, it appears black.

Bob taps her left breast with his big toe, and it is cold and squishy. Nothing like it had been minutes before, when she kicked and screamed and clawed, her body full of heat, only stimulating Bob further.

He could not have stopped the knife even if he had wanted to. He looks down at her stomach that could have possibly just been desposited with his own child, but a hole is where her belly button used to be. A glorious, bitter-smelling, red-oozing hole. Her lower intestenes hang out of the hole mixed with thick, rusting blood.

Sickening.

Bob wipes his hands on his pants once more, but the stain remains.


End file.
